Danish quartet Iceage are the standard bearers for "hipster hardcore", that being high-velocity punk rock played not for a grizzled crowd in Black Flag T-shirts, but (ostensibly) for the kids with assymetrical haircuts. It's also a little different to traditional hardcore, swapping the original genre's precision and military discipline for a carefully nurtured sloppiness. Presumably the sense that it might all fall apart at any moment is meant to convey quite how wild and couldn't-give-a-toss they are, even though it means the brutal attack of the music is lost in exchange. But the best hardcore was always as much about melodies, albeit simple ones, as about power, and that's Iceage's shortcoming. Only on In Haze – with a recurring spindly, picked guitar line – do they hit upon a musical motif that sticks, and Elias Bender Rønnenfelt's constipated rhino bellow is so dominant that if it's not to your taste, the whole album falls by the wayside as a result. There is, at least, no chance to get bored as it whizzes by in less than half an hour – it's the musical equivalent of the old joke: such terrible food … and such small portions.